Chapter 2
TWO
LILITH
“So, like, in your head, did this idea seem … you know, sane?” Adam asks with faux curiosity, a cup of tea held halfway to his lips.
“Because if it genuinely did seem like a sane idea, I think we might need to book you in for some sort of mental assessment. Where’s my phone, I’ll look up treatment centres right now.
” He makes a show out of patting his pockets, “searching” for his phone.
When he retrieves it, I lean over the kitchen island to slap it out of his hands.
Adam gasps dramatically, clutching his cup of tea to his chest as if he’s afraid it’ll be the target of my next assault.
He darts a hand forward, seeking retribution by pinching a corner from my chocolate brownie that’s sitting on the ripped-open bakery bag.
I slap at his hand again, harder this time, and Adam yelps, quickly drawing back, pouting at me like an injured puppy, practically forlorn.
"Touch my brownie again, and I will end you. In the face," I say, pointing my fork at Adam threateningly.
He shakes his head at me, brown eyes wide with innocence behind his glasses. The massive liar, I saw him checking out my chocolatey goodness, and I shall not be sugar robbed by my own brother.
"That doesn't even make sense," Adam says, like he thinks I care what makes sense. It's like he doesn't even know me.
I put the fork down and point a finger at my face. "You see this? This is the face of a woman who spent half the night trying to convince a runaway Angel to stop bloody staring at me with those creepy white eyes. She just sat there, Ad, on the sofa, not moving or talking or anything.”
It’d been a while since I’d been in the same room with an Angel, and I’d forgotten how disturbing their lack of …
everything can be. Angels are like candles without a wick, their souls reaped by Death and bodies laid to rest until the Angels drag them back, half formed and barely alive.
Just looking at her—Azrael—pisses me off.
Not at her, but for her. For all they took that was not theirs to take and that she may never get back.
"How dare she!" Adam mocks, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “What troubles you’ve faced. What mountains you’ve climbed. What creepy Angel-shaped hurdles you’ve overcome this night.” Twat.
I pick up a small packet of brown sugar that I brought back from my visit to the bakery this morning and throw it, hitting him square in the face.
"Anyway, so my night was shit, therefore I need my chocolate-brownie fix.
You will not take it from me, Ad. I will battle you to the death, I swear to fuck. "
Adam snatches the packet of sugar from where it landed on the table and throws it right back at me. It lands inside my cup of tea.
Tea splashes everywhere. Adam grimaces, and I shake my head him. "Fail, bro, epic fail."
"Your face is an epic fail," Adam mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
I smirk at him. "Like, for real, though, that was just monumentally terrible. I don't think you'll ever be able to show your face in here again. Personally, I would move. Maybe to Mexico."
"I'm not moving to Mexico!”
I snap my fingers and put on a mocking “eureka” expression. "You're right, Mexico isn't far enough. People might still hear about the epic fail that just occurred. You could try ... New Zealand. Or bite the bullet and finally give yourself up to Heaven."
Adam pulls that face he always pulls when he's trying to think of a really great comeback.
His lips kind of purse, and his eyes glaze over just a little bit.
It's sad. I really do feel for him. But he’s my brother, so I reserve the right to tease him into oblivion without any guilt weighing down my conscience.
"If I go to Heaven, then you're coming with me. I am not facing God alone," Adam finally comes back with. See, so sad.
I pick up a napkin and start wiping up the sloshed tea. Luckily, none of it got on my clothes. Tea stains can be a bitch to get out, especially if it's the real-deal stuff. There have been many times when I've damned my need for high-market tea after I've spilt it on my clothes or my bedsheets.
But I refuse to drink any of that swill sold by most cafes around here. So yeah, I'm a tea snob. Whatever.
"I'm not taking on God to defend your honour. If that deadbeat dad wants to eat you, then I'm afraid you're just going to have to accept your fate." I rip off a bit of brownie, completely discarding the fork this time, and shove it into my mouth with absolutely no thought to how it will look.
I'll act like someone with manners and decorum tomorrow. Right now, I just want to scarf down my brownie.
"Who says I won't be the one defending your honour?" Adam huffs. He takes a drink from his way-too-big coffee cup and watches me over the rim.
I chew and swallow another bite of brownie before answering. "Uh, because I'm genuinely lovable, God would adore me. I wouldn't need defending. And even if I did, I wouldn't ask you."
Adam looks offended. I have no idea why since this is an extremely hypothetical conversation we're having.
"Why not? I could totally take on God, probably, maybe."
I snort out a laugh, unable to help myself. "Can I please direct you to the epic fail of five minutes ago as example A of why you so completely could not take on God?"
"You're mean today," Adam complains, his nose scrunching up in mild annoyance. I know he's not actually annoyed, though, because he taps his glasses when he gets really pissy.
"Suck it up and deal, princess," I say, not bothering to hide my grin.
Hanging out with Adam always makes me feel less shitty, even when I've had a really shittastic day. He makes me smile, no matter what. It's like his superpower, and I love him for it.
"Princess? That's a new one." Adam frowns, mouthing the word “princess” to himself a few times.
"Suits you, I think."
Adam opens his mouth to say something, but just then the door to my flat opens, revealing our sister, dejection in the slump of her shoulders and downturn of her mouth.
Adam turns in his seat, smiling at Eve as she plods over and parks herself next to him, leaning on the kitchen island with her forearms crossed in front of her.
She doesn't smile back at him. If anything, she becomes even more mopey. I wince internally.
Unlike me, my siblings are both human, and despite the fact they don’t technically need to work since money is the last thing we need to worry about after however many millennia we’ve been alive, Eve has always had a penchant for choosing career paths to dominate from century to century.
This time around, she’s all-in on becoming a journalist. She had an interview for her dream job at our city’s local newspaper, the Rogue Review. She was more excited for it than I’ve seen her be about anything in a long time.
Eve’s eyes, a perfect match in shade and shape for Adam’s, are downcast, and she's fumbling with her fingers. Adam shares a loaded glance with me, both of us aware of what this behaviour probably means. I reach across the table to grab Eve’s hand and give it a sympathetic squeeze.
"Give me the interviewer’s name, and I will end them,” Adam says.
Eve gives a slight huff. "Don't bother."
"Yeah, Ad, fuck’s sake, just let it go.” I give Adam a mock slap on his arm. "You're so scary when you get all protective."
Eve rolls her eyes, but Adam puffs his chest and drawls in a fake alpha-bro voice, "I take care of what's mine, ladies."
I almost choke on my piece of brownie. I have to grip the table and cough for a few seconds.
Eve makes a sound a lot like a heavy sigh, and we both turn our attention back to her.
"It was going really well," she says tiredly, "until they started talking about how the main part of my job would be working under Diane Foxley.”
Adam and I exchange another look, this one more of a shared grimace.
Diane Foxley is a scaremongering “journalist” infamous for her prejudice against the LGBTQIA+ community.
She writes a weekly column for the Rogue Review, too, mostly with updates about the terrible actions of our local queers in power and queer-related organisations, twisting the truth and even telling outright lies when it suits her.
"Working under her as in … reporting about how all queer people are out to destroy society and take over the world?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
Eve sighs, rubbing a hand through her white-blonde hair and tugging on the short strands. "Pretty much, yeah."
“Shit,” I hiss, squeezing her hand again. “So you walked out of the interview?”
“Had to, didn’t I?” Eve scowls, frustration creasing her features. “Can’t exactly work for the woman who wants people like us dead, can I?”
It’s weird to have been alive long enough to see the world grow its hatred like mould on a damp ceiling.
It’s spread so fast and caused unfathomable damage to humanity.
The people alive now weren’t there at the beginning, before that hatred was born.
If they were, if they could have known a world without it, then maybe they wouldn’t fight so hard to hold onto it.
“Well,” I reason, just drolly enough to annoy her, “if we’re being technical about it, she’s only ever publicly stated that she wants the government to lock us up in a deep dark hole forever, not have us executed.”
Adam gives me a dry look. “You’re right. Let’s not be overdramatic snowflakes about it.”
“Hey.” I hold up my hands. “I just don’t want to get done in for slander.”
Eve jabs me in the arm with her elbow, throwing me a high-intensity glower. I bite my tongue between my teeth and wink at her. She rolls her eyes. "Shut up, Lil."
I place a hand over my heart. "I was just fact-checking you; good journalists are supposed to care about that. Fuck, you're so emotional sometimes."
Eve balls up a napkin and throws it at me. It hits my forehead and then falls to the tabletop.